


Bargaining Chip

by silentdescant



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Car Accidents, Hostage Situations, Hostage Stiles Stilinski, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Derek, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 01:35:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14009316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentdescant/pseuds/silentdescant
Summary: “My bullets might not have an effect on you,” Ivan pants as he drags Stiles a few steps to the left, out into the open under the florescent parking lot lights. “But they’ll sure as hell have an effect on him.”Derek stops advancing.





	Bargaining Chip

**Author's Note:**

> I've been on a Teen Wolf binge and I couldn't resist dabbling in some Stiles angst and pain. There's no mysterious plot or backstory to this villain; this is just an excuse to write something bloody. Unbeta'd.

Suddenly the shooting stops. Ivan grabs a handful of Stiles’s hoodie and yanks him out of the shadows between two cars, where he’d been really hoping to not be noticed. He’s gotta get better at hiding. Ivan pushes the barrel of the gun right up against Stiles’s temple and he goes still, cautious and terrified.

“My bullets might not have an effect on you,” Ivan pants as he drags Stiles a few steps to the left, out into the open under the florescent parking lot lights. “But they’ll sure as hell have an effect on him.”

Derek stops advancing. He looks scary as fuck in his leather jacket and murderous expression, but Ivan apparently isn’t swayed.

Stiles sags in Ivan’s grasp and the hoodie goes tight around his armpits. “Ah, shit, man, you might as well just shoot me now, he doesn’t fucking care about me, he’s not gonna stop just because you’ve got me—”

“Shut up,” Ivan growls in his ear. To Derek, he shouts, “Don’t come any closer. I’ll shoot him somewhere it’ll hurt.”

“God, just kill me now—”

“Why kill you when I can get some use outta you, huh?” Ivan mutters. “C’mon, with me. Stay back or I’ll shoot your precious little human.”

“Precious,” Stiles bites out. “I’m not fucking precious to him. You really need a new bargaining chip.”

Ivan shoves him at the driver’s side of his own Jeep and waves the gun. “Get in,” he says. “We’re getting out of here.”

Derek’s still frozen in the middle of the parking lot, glowering at them. Stiles wishes he would _move_. Stiles is such a fucking liability. Ivan would be subdued by now if Stiles wasn’t such a pathetically mortal little human. He doesn’t even need the wolfy strength. Some super-healing would sure even the playing field just a little.

Ivan climbs into the passenger seat and keeps his gun leveled. “Drive.”

“Drive _where_?”

“Out of this parking lot, idiot. Turn the key and _drive_.”

Sighing, Stiles pulls his keys out of his pocket and puts them in the ignition. He stares at Derek through the dirty windshield. Derek’s breathing heavily, which is weird because he wasn’t winded a few minutes ago.

“Stiles!” Derek shouts. It sounds like a warning. Stiles doesn’t know what for, since Derek’s too afraid of getting him killed to move a fucking muscle.

“Let’s _go_.”

Stiles starts the car and peels out of the parking lot.

The windows rattle at the sound of Derek’s earth-shattering roar.

“He’s not gonna follow us,” Stiles mutters.

“You’re the Sheriff’s kid. Everyone’s going to follow us. Head north.”

Ivan directs him onto some backroads and tells him to hurry up, and pretty soon they’re racing through the forest and the gun is still way too close.

“Why don’t you just shoot me?” Stiles asks with his teeth clenched. His hands are tight around the wheel. “Get it over with.”

“I don’t want to kill you, Stiles. You’re the key to controlling all your idiot friends. And your _dad_. Why would I kill you?”

The problem is, Ivan is right. His dad would break every rule for him. Scott would never endanger Stiles, he’s all too aware of Stiles’s fragility. Derek… Stiles hoped Derek would take the risk. But it appears he was wrong to think Derek would be so careless. It’s stupid. He was so stupid, thinking Derek, who has anger issues but keeps himself so tightly controlled, who’s so _careful_ all the fucking time, he was stupid to think Derek would chance it.

He can’t let himself be captured. He can’t be a hostage. His friends are too powerful, and too stupid, and he _can’t be in this position_.

Stiles twists his hands on the wheel. He grits his teeth and closes his eyes. He yanks the wheel sharply to the left.

The Jeep careens into the ditch and rolls completely over once then keeps going, and a tree finally brings it to a halt on its side. Every part of Stiles’s body is in pain. He doesn’t even know where he was hit. Ivan, at least, is not in much better shape, but he lands on top of Stiles, pinning him to the door. There’s glass everywhere, blood everywhere. Stiles is barely clinging to consciousness. He’s not sure where the gun went. Ivan isn’t moving, but he’s not dead. Stiles is pretty sure he’s not dead. Neither of them are dead, miraculously. Except his Jeep, his Jeep might be dead. There’s part of a tree coming through the roof.

He can barely breathe with Ivan on top of him, and he doesn’t have that stupid werewolf strength to shove him off.

Everything hurts. There’s blood in his eyes and it’s too dark to see.

“Stiles! _Stiles!_ ”

How did Derek get here so quickly?

Was it even quickly? How long as he been stuck here? He’s pretty sure he blacked out for at least a few minutes.

Ivan groans. Definitely alive. Stiles lets out a scream and pushes with every ounce of his energy, and Ivan shifts halfway out the broken windshield.

Then he’s dragged the rest of the way out and Stiles can breathe again. There’s a roar, Derek’s snarling and bellowing, and there’s blood, Stiles can _hear_ the blood and the organs and the viscera slapping wetly to the ground.

He passes out again, he must pass out again, because when he opens his eyes, when he can _see_ , it’s Derek’s blood-slick leather jacket, the stubbly underside of his chin as he drags Stiles out of the overturned car. Stiles’s head lolls. The Jeep is completely on its side, bumpers and hood crumpled, windshield completely absent but for the jagged shards clinging to the edges of where it used to be.

“Stay with me, Stiles,” Derek mutters. “C’mon, I got you.”

Ivan’s there too, or what’s left of him. His mangled body is more inside-out than not. Stiles is going to be sick.

“M’gonna be sick,” he groans. It’s not the blood. Maybe. It’s probably the concussion, because he definitely has a concussion. “Derek.”

He reaches up with one hand and slaps Derek’s arm. He’s weak but he gets his point across, and Derek turns him, lifts him half-upright so he doesn’t choke as he vomits into the dirt. Everything _hurts_ and now he’s gagging, dry-heaving because there’s nothing in his stomach, and he can’t breathe again, but Derek’s rubbing his back, Derek’s holding him steady so he doesn’t fall.

“I only have my motorcycle,” Derek murmurs. _Motorcycle, yes!_ “I can’t take you to the hospital.” _Oh, motorcycle, no…_

“Fuck,” Stiles gasps succinctly.

Derek deposits him against a tree, sprawled with his legs out in front of him. One is broken, he sees now. Funny how he didn’t realize that before. His whole body aches, but now, now that he’s seen his leg twisted how it definitely shouldn’t be twisted, it hurts the most.

Derek’s hands are still on him, though, and Stiles sees the black running through his veins before he can actually feel his pain lessening. It comes, though, the relief. Eventually. He exhales long and loud and melts back against the tree. His eyes are glazed, but he can see the focus in Derek’s expression. He can see the pain Derek’s trying to hide.

“You c’n stop now,” Stiles slurs. “S’okay.”

Then Derek’s feeling him up, hands moving fluidly over Stiles’s torso, his jeans. “Your phone, Stiles, where is it, where’s your phone? I have to call an ambulance. Stiles, where’s your phone?”

If it’s not in his pocket, it must be… He looks at the Jeep. Derek follows his gaze and takes off, diving in through the broken windshield to search. After a few moments he lets out a frustrated growl. He can’t find it. Stiles isn’t sure why he’s so worried, though. It’s just a broken leg, and Derek already took most of his pain away. He’ll survive.

Except it’s still a little hard to breathe and it’s getting harder, and he’s getting dizzier, and Derek isn’t even touching him now. There’s no morphine-like reason for this haziness.

“Stay with me, Stiles,” Derek says in a low, urgent voice. He’s back, he came back somehow between one blink and the next, and Stiles is leaning heavily on him. He can hear Derek’s rapid heartbeat through the damp fabric of his Henley. “Someone’s coming. Just stay with me.”

There’s a phone in his hand. Not Stiles’s phone. Ivan’s, he guesses. It’s glowing. People are gonna see.

“Th’body,” Stiles says.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Y’gotta go, Derek.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“ _Derek_.”

“Shut up, Stiles.” But his arms are tense around Stiles now.

“I’ll be fine,” Stiles tells him. His optimism doesn’t really ring true, but it’s the attempt that counts. He slaps Derek’s arm. His palm slides through the blood coating Derek’s jacket.

Suddenly he’s on the ground, lying amongst the tree roots, and Derek’s taking off his jacket. He flings it into the woods and Stiles blearily watches him climb out of the ditch and back up to the road. His motorcycle’s on its side. Stiles blinks a few times and then the motorcycle is gone and Derek’s coming out of the trees, shirtless now.

“I’m not gonna leave you,” he says urgently.

Stiles can hear the sirens now. He couldn’t before, but maybe Derek could. Derek probably could.

Derek puts Ivan’s phone in Stiles’s lax hand and disappears into the woods. When he comes back, he’s not human.

He licks Stiles’s throat and nuzzles him, tilting Stiles’s head up. Derek lies down beside him. Stiles pushes his fingers through Derek’s thick fur. He’s warm. It’s nice. Soft.

There are lights now, more than just the moonlight filtered through tree branches. Ambulance. Stiles turns his head. It hurts again. Derek’s better than morphine but it wore off too quick. He groans and clenches his fist. He’s yanking on Derek’s fur, he realizes after a moment. He needs to stop. But he can’t let go.

Then Derek’s gone, wrenched out of his grasp. He’s too weak to hold him that tightly, probably. Too weak to keep his head up.

There are people touching him now, human people. They lift him onto a stretcher. He’s gonna pass out again. It’s probably for the best. Everything _hurts_. Derek’s eyes are glowing in the darkness where the trees have swallowed the moonlight.

“Don’t leave,” he whispers. Derek will hear him. He closes his eyes and lets the darkness swallow him too.

***

“Hey, buddy,” Scott says warmly as soon as Stiles opens his eyes. Stiles thrashes, or at least, he tries to, but his body is slow to respond, his reactions sluggish. Scott presses him down on the hospital bed. He’s in a hospital. Of course he is.

“No offense, Stiles, but you look like you lost a fight with a lawnmower,” Melissa says. She’s standing on Stiles’s other side, holding his chart. His neck hurts to twist that way. He looks back at Scott. It’s easier. She keeps talking, though. “Your dad will be back in a little while. He’s cleaning up the mess left at the wreck.”

The mess Derek left. The Ivan-shaped mess. If you can call it Ivan-shaped anymore.

“You lost quite a bit of blood, and we pulled a lot of glass out of you, kiddo. But you’ll be okay. How’re you feeling?”

“Alive,” Stiles croaks. “Better glass than bullets.”

Scott shares a look with his mom.

Somewhere in the corner of the room there’s a huff of amusement. Stiles squints into the shadow and sees Derek in a chair, looking surly. As usual. His arms are crossed. He’s wearing one of Scott’s t-shirts and it’s tight around his bulging muscles.

“Don’t do that again,” Derek growls. That could mean anything, really. Stiles takes it to mean _don’t wrap your car around a tree in a ditch in the middle of nowhere_ , but he might be talking about going with Ivan in the first place. Or he might be talking about breaking his leg. Stiles would be very glad to never break another leg again. He wonders if getting shot would be worse than this. Maybe he should just get shot next time.

There can’t be a next time, he remembers now. He’s too fragile and Derek’s too stupid.

“You stayed,” Stiles whispers.

Derek lifts his chin. His eyes are narrowed but warm. “I told you I wouldn’t leave you, Stiles.”

Melissa clears her throat. “C’mon, Scott. He needs to rest.” She doesn’t say anything to Derek.

“D’you sneak in the window?” Stiles asks as the McCalls close the door softly behind them.

“Scott gave me clean clothes. I didn’t have to sneak in.”

Stiles sighs. “Why didn’t you just kill him?”

“I did.”

“I mean before.”

Derek’s brow becomes impossibly surlier. He leans forward in his chair.

“He was going to shoot you, Stiles.”

The corner of the room is too far away and Stiles is having trouble focusing on him. He closes his eyes. “I know I’m a liability,” he says. “I’m sorry. I tried to… I tried to make it better. I tried to give you a chance. Why didn’t you take the fucking chance?”

Derek’s at his side, taking his hand. He can move so silently, it’s creepy. Stiles opens his eyes and sees the black tendrils of pain crawling up Derek’s forearm. Stiles breathes a little easier.

“This isn’t going to happen again, Stiles. I’m not going to let this happen again. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

“Not gonna leave me?” Stiles asks. He can feel his lips twisting into a grin even though he tries not to.

“No,” Derek answers. “I’m not gonna leave you.” 

 

 _fin_.


End file.
